


The King's Mercy

by Sliven



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Blackmail, Consensual Sex, Edoras, Fellatio, Lemon, M/M, Meduseld, Plot, Repentance, Rohan, Slash, Smut, not-exactly consensual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sliven/pseuds/Sliven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Frodo offers mercy to Gríma Wormtongue on the road, Gríma finds the strength required to leave Saruman. In an attempt to save his soul, he finds himself heading back to Rohan, mind set on repentance. He remembers well that Théoden King was once prepared to pardon him. But Théoden is no longer King of Rohan...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To be No one

**Author's Note:**

> Many people seem to think it foolish, even superstitious, to believe that the world could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is sometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’
> 
> Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.
> 
> — Vincent Van Gogh

So leave, and be free of him! That’s what had been said; you are free to leave. Free to go wherever you wish, to do whatever you want. Yet oh, how strange a taste that word would put on his tongue. He had hardly any dignity left to speak of, a mere tramp littering the road, pushed aside by other wayfarers. Ever weary, ever starving, he would follow on his master’s heel because he had nowhere else to go. Be free of him, then! Only, to be free of him was to be nothing at all. Could they not see that? But, all dressed in white, respectable and respected as his power shone through his every limb, the newly designated White wizard could hardly comprehend such a lowly thing. Leave him, he said, and expected it done. And when it was not so, he turned his horse and continued on his way. Never looking back. Never fully comprehending the weakness of men.

One other did, however. One who spoke soft words, words to make a man feel a slight tingle of hope, one small chance of escaping his faith. A halfling, he had heard them called, those small creatures. Half a man, and yet they knew such compassion. After everything that had happened, when the halfling spoke of mercy and offered him respite right there on the road, he felt a window creak open in his soul, a thin ray of light trying to find its way in. Had he dared, he would have joined their company right there and then. But he was still under the rein of his master, and it took several nights for him to build up his courage and, at last, to leave.

He ran, heart pounding, blindly into the night. Sneaking softly out of the camp had offered no greater obstacles, it was mostly his imagination that forced him into a run. What the wizard of many colours would do when he found out. What the wizard of many colours would do, if he caught him. The images in his mind were vivid enough to keep him running, stumbling through the forest till daylight came and he hid, pulling dead leaves and branches over himself in hope they’d hide him. He dared not fall asleep but sleep claimed him nonetheless, and he dreamed of the earth opening as if to swallow him, of worms pulling him down into the darkness. He opened his mouth to scream, and the worms filled his mouth, his nose, his eyes until everything was dark and muffled, and yet he screamed. When he woke up he was still screaming, soaked with sweat. He was alone, leaves and dead branches covering him. Contemplating the nightmare, he shivered, absently pulling what was left of once fine robes about him. Had he foreseen his death? What did death hold in store for such as him, anyway? It did not bear thinking of. He very much preferred to stay alive. Perhaps, he mused, perhaps if he thought to repent. Repent in life, and be rewarded in death. At least, he very much hoped so. And every night that he woke up screaming, he vowed even harder at repentance.

He lumbered on, not yet paying much thought as to where, only that he was going away from his former master, and that the distance increased with each step taken. This satisfied him for a while. Once he felt certain that the wizard of many colours was not in pursuit he took to the road, sleeping by the side of it or under a hedge, if such luxury was provided. He ate what he found, which wasn’t much, but it hadn’t been much before he left his masters side, either. He’d become accustomed to traveling on an empty stomach, ignoring the dull pain in his belly and putting his mind to placing one foot before the other, and again, and again until nightfall came and he couldn’t see his feet anymore. If there were other wayfarers, he kept his eyes on the ground and stepped to the side until they’d passed.

Despite the halfling’s offer, he did not rightly know how to find the company, as he’d ran blindly. He had probably ended up far from where they were going. He didn’t put much mind to where he was headed, but then again, perhaps he did. As he came to a fork in the road, he would turn east, then later again choose the road leading north. And slowly, ever so slowly he came closer to the land he had once abandoned, back to the people he had once betrayed. Perhaps his feet knew the way all by themselves, for he hardly lifted his eyes from the road. Yet, once he did, he was nearing the borderlands of Rohan, home of the proud Horse Lords, the country he himself had sought to tear down and destroy. His own country, once, but no more. His treacherous feet had led him back to the beginning. Or perhaps, he thought, they had led him to his end.

It was late in the season, the year turning to face winter, which on the plains was harsh and unforgiving. The man, who had by now made camp right at the border, considered his options. But though he had spent considerable amounts of time thinking it through, he always reached the same conclusion: that he had few. Without his master, he was nothing. But he had left his master, and he was not going back, nay, never. His master had used him to his own means, and when he was no longer useful, had taken from him all pride, all dignity, everything he could still call his own. Even his name; his master had called him nothing but _Worm_ , miserable creature crawling along as the wizard saw fit. So, the man mused, he was nothing now, but he had been nothing much before, either. Reduced to whatever the wizard thought of him, he figured he preferred the present: he was still nothing. But at least he was no longer spit on, no longer beaten by the wizard’s staff. He was no longer _Worm_ , but no one at all. And that, at long last, was a freedom of sorts.

The question was, was it a freedom he thought worth keeping? This he asked himself, as he considered the plains and the cold gray skies above them. No one cannot survive without food or shelter for very much longer, winter is coming and it is cruel, as he well knew. Darkness will fall, not the shadow of evil but an ordinary night, now that the war is over. Yet, even an ordinary night brings dreams, does it not? Dreams to wake you up screaming, dreams that made you swear to make amends. Repent in life and then, in death, who knows? Perhaps you could be no one no longer, perhaps you could once more be considered a man. Perhaps even, if you are lucky, you could be considered a man of Rohan. All it takes is a little courage, to venture into her lands, to walk those plains on tired feet. All it takes is for a King to remember his offer of mercy, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll be given one more chance. Yet, if you are not, you need not fear having to suffer for much longer. Death will come swift and smooth, if you are to have no more chances. Never fear. The King will see to it, should he not find himself in the mood for mercy. All it takes is a little courage, and a few more steps along the road.

Théoden King had indeed offered mercy to the traitor Gríma Wormtongue, the man he had once considered a trustworthy Counsellor. Mercy, that was, under the condition that the Wormtongue changed his ways and remained by his side, proving himself loyal to the King and to Rohan. Wormtongue had spat at Théoden’s offer and fled to his new master, the wizard Saruman, blinded by his power and his promises. Nothing good had come of it, and he’d had many a cold night to think his decisions over. Yet, he’d never thought he could muster enough spirit to leave the wizard. It turned out he had misjudged himself. Your dreams reek of fear, Gríma Wormtongue, fear of what you have become and where it might lead you! You have sworn to repent, now all it takes to put your feet back on the road once more is just a tiny bit of courage.

He dully realized that he must have carried these fancies all along. To somehow make amends, that Théoden’s offer of mercy would still be valid, could he only prove himself worthy. He stared at the sky, but it held no answer except that night, and possibly snow, was going to fall. Being no one, he realized, meant having no future. Having nothing, additionally, meant having nothing left to lose. As this novel idea settled in his mind, his feet took to moving again, one in front of the other, repeat, and again. Slowly, Gríma Wormtongue wandered into Rohan as darkness fell. Occasionally, he’d glance up at the cloudy skies with something that resembled determination.


	2. Long live the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Get brought to the King, that was the plan. Pray that he will let you speak before he reaches for his sword.

The Rohirrim had not grown soft during the short time of peace that had followed the war. Gríma Wormtongue had been made painfully aware of this as he had allowed himself to get captured by a scouting party of riders. Not that he could in any way have avoided getting caught, but he still considered it this way. He had, after all, chosen to return to Rohan all by himself.

Get brought to the King, that was the plan. Pray that he is still willing to show mercy. Pray that he will believe you when you tell him that you want to make amends. Pray that he will let you speak before he reaches for his sword. Non too gently pushed by sneering guards he would stumble up the stairs of Meduseld, far too busy keeping track of his own feet to notice much else. Hands bound on his back, he hardly had a chance to regain his balance as the guards shoved him towards the throne. Falling hard on his knees, he clenched his teeth around the pain. As he caught his breath, he dared not lift his eyes to face the King. To plan, to hope, to fancy what this meeting might be like proved very different from actually being here and he was terrified, convinced all of the sudden that he had been mistaken, that he should have turned and run the other way once he found himself at the border of Rohan. But it was too late. The King was coming down the few steps leading up to the throne, and stopped just in front of Gríma.

“And just what is this that you’ve found for me?” a hateful voice, or perhaps it was amused? Gríma hardly payed it any mind, and he didn’t hear anything else the King said, or what the riders answered. He was transfixed by the sight of the King’s feet. They were all wrong.

The last time he had seen Théoden, the King had been old and bent, his health and age affected by dark spells and by the treacherous whispers of one Gríma Wormtongue. His hand could not grip his sword, not until the now-white wizard Gandalf came and freed him from the spell. Hardly anyone had come to seek the King’s audience in those days, and few who did would have noticed the small comforts an ageing man hid beneath his royal robes, such as tired and swollen feet wrapped in soft rags. Not unless they knew. Naturally, Gríma had not expected to find his former King still in sickbed and with an old man’s comforts. No, for he had seen the King transformed by the power of magic, and had felt the King’s strength return first hand, as Théoden himself had forcefully thrown him out of the Golden Hall. Yet, the man now standing before him was not that King. Théoden, while not under a spell, was still old. He wouldn’t have the spring in the step of this man, who seemed to have a bit more life force than his body could rightly contain as he was constantly walking while speaking, moving in and out of sight with an energetic bounce in each step. Those were not the feet of a man who had ever been old. Those were not the feet of Théoden King. Realizing this, Gríma Wormtongue whimpered. He had bet all he had on one card, only to learn that particular card was out of play.

Théoden King died at the Pelennor fields while holding up Rohan’s end of the bargain with Gondor. A hero’s death, but a death nonetheless. Théoden King has no mercy to give anymore, for he no longer walks among us. The one to inherit the Kingdom of Rohan was Théoden’s nephew and heir, since his only son had died in an orc raid. Éomer had been third Marshal of the Riddermark, and had never dreamed of wearing the crown himself. Yet now, here he was, and afore him was a delicate problem. No, the King is no longer Théoden but Éomer son of Éomund, who’ve never thought to offer mercy to the Wormtongued former Counsellor, nor has he ever thought to see him again, alive.

Gríma’s mind was working hard. Cold logic had always been his gift, and he knew before long who stood in front of him. Trembling slightly, he made an effort to look up at the familiar sight he knew would greet him. _Repent, if not in life, then_ … he could not finish the thought. He realized he had put too much hope into his scheme. He did not wish to die, yet what else remained for him now? The tiny window of hope in Gríma’s soul slam shut and he closed his eyes, unable to face his King.

Éomer, who was now King, held no love for Gríma. He had seen the former Counsellor’s dirty work and the effects of it first hand, as he and his family had been reduced to pawns, moved around in the filthy game of Rohan run by the Counsellor and the former wizard of Orthanc, Saruman. Just seeing Gríma made Éomer’s blood boil, but he steadied himself. He was King now, and kings, the thought, must keep their composure. He had recognized the traitor the moment he set foot in the Golden Hall. Stumbling and dressed in rags he might be, but to Éomer’s eye, Gríma Wormtongue still carried himself with such utter arrogance, as if he were the captor and the guards just scum. This was the man who had haunted Éomer’s past and youth, always in the shadow of every doorway, ever at the end of every conspiracy. The man who had brought Rohan to its knees. The man who had estranged his beloved uncle. The man he had hated for most of his adult life. The man who was kneeling before him, Éomer son of Éomund, just become ruler of Rohan.

The Hall fell silent. Éomer had dismissed his riders after learning all he could from them. The man best known to him as Wormtongue remained right as he had been left, a kneeling heap of rags afore the throne. Éomer went over to him, trying to keep his posture just as confident as he knew it wasn’t. He thought the man had made a noise, but he wasn’t sure.

“Wormtongue,” he said, putting as much venom into the word as he knew how. The other man remained motionless. “My riders say they found you well within our borders. Yet you were exiled. You were free to go anywhere but here. Why have you come?”

“My Lord,” Gríma finally managed, glancing up at long last. “My King,” he hastily added upon seeing the face of the agitated young man. “I… I came to…,” he trailed off, uncertainly. How to go on? With Théoden, he would have pleaded. With Éomer, he wasn’t sure. Presumably, his every word was only prolonging a swift death. How to make the new King see? He opted, finally, for the truth. “I have come to atone for my crimes” he ventured, bracing himself for the roar of laughter sure to follow such a statement, from him; to Éomer, King of Rohan.

But no laughter came. Éomer simply regarded the former Counsellor from every angle, as if trying to detect any hidden weapon upon his body. There were none, the riders had seen too that. Eventually, he spoke: “Did you come here looking for death then, traitor as you are?”

Gríma swallowed. “Execution for treason is within the laws, true. But I came here in the hopes of honouring an offer of mercy, one given to me by Théoden King”.

Éomer snorted. “I remember well that offer, and the answer you gave it. The offer you speak of is expended. But you knew that,” he added, giving Gríma a quizzical look. “Why are you really here?”

Gríma shuddered. But no, he told himself. I’ve come this far. I’ll be damned if I quiver before this whelp, better to face my faith directly. Better stick to the truth, Gríma Wormtongue, not to entangle yourself in sweet lies. You have done that before; it doesn’t end well. And so he said: “The truth, Éomer King? I came for repentance. For the chance of turning wrongs to rights. Even if…,” he paused to swallow, the echo of his own voice haunting him within the Golden Hall. Éomer frowned, and Gríma hastened to continue: “Even if it means I’ll pay for my crimes by death. But please, my Lord,” he carried on, breathlessly, “my King! Please, consider that I can be resourceful. I’ll serve you well, if only you’ll have mercy!”

Éomer looked down. The traitor was still kneeling at his feet, a pleading look in his eyes. He would have liked nothing better than to bury his sword to the hilt in the chest of the man called Wormtongue. Six months ago he would have done so without hesitating and with no sense of remorse. But he was become King, and a man was on his knees before him, begging. It may not be wise, he’d been taught, to begin one’s regime with blood and hangings. As King, one is meant to be superior, to offer compassion above what normal men can manage. A King must not kill in cold blood. As King, you are meant to be just and, when the situation calls for it, merciful. How, Éomer King, would you like your regime to start? Will you be the cold, vengeful ruler, determined to hunt down every shadow of old? Or will you be the kind of righteous King you always looked up to, the kind of leader you considered your uncle to be? Éomer King, what will your rule look like in the eyes of your subjects?

Nodding to himself, Éomer reached a decision. “You wish to repent, Wormtongue? Well then, repent you shall. Just how,” he hastened to continue upon noticing the relieved glint in Gríma’s eyes, “remains to be seen. Perhaps I shall bring you to full court. In that case, the voices of Rohan will decide your fate. You may live or you may die, but rest assured that you will pay for your crimes. Such is the law, and I say it is just.”


	3. Mercy of a kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Perhaps it is true that men can change. Perhaps I need to believe that they can."

You may live or you may die, Gríma Wormtongue, but this is true for everybody. You will atone for your crimes, just like you said that you wanted. Not everybody gets that chance.

And even if he was to pay with his life, that would be a mercy of sorts. An execution is not meant for a no one, it’s saved for those as matter. It’s saved for men, to muster some dignity and walk up the steps to the noose, rather than being hunted down and slain as an animal. Or worse yet; dying alone in the wilderness without anyone knowing or caring. The people cheering at the hanging will not cheer for you, but they will know who you were, and they will remember. Gríma tried to console himself again with the thought that men who did face their fate bravely were said to be rewarded in death and to be granted a place with their forefathers, but it was poor comfort. He had chosen this road, true. But he didn’t much like the inevitable end of it, whatever else he had previously convinced himself of. At least, he thought grimly, he had been lucky to find Éomer on the throne rather than Éowyn, the fair princess whom he’d once set eyes on and considered a well-deserved prize for his deeds in Rohan. Had she been the one to greet him, his head would have already parted with his neck, of that he was certain. No, Gríma didn’t much fancy facing death, with or without bravery. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

For now, he was still alive. That, at least, was something. He was also dry and sheltered, and for the first time in many moons, he wasn’t hungry. The Rohirric guards had made sure he would not have to face death on an empty stomach, and for that he was grateful. Warm porridge to fill his belly and bread, sweeter than he had thought anyone would waste on a prisoner. In the lockup at the back of the stables, he felt less miserable than he had ever done out on the road. The irony was not lost on him. Life on the road was cold and tiresome, and if that was freedom, perhaps he preferred imprisonment. Maybe I ought to let the King know, he thought. He wondered whether Éomer had the sense of humour to understand the hilarity. Gríma had never known Éomer well. He had known practically everything worth knowing _of_ him, true, for Gríma had paid well to have eyes and ears in every corner during his time in Edoras. But he had never really gotten to know Éomer as a person.

Éomer King was pacing the length of his private reception room, trying to ignore the glares from his only guest. Gamling, while seated comfortably with a goblet of wine, sighed impatiently. The new King, he thought, sometimes spent so much time pondering over what was just and what was noble that he could hardly reach a decision, kingly or not. Yet Gamling knew that he was being unfair. Éomer usually thought long and hard about things. He would set to work on a difficult question much like would a dog at a new bone, refusing to let go till all the marrow was consumed, all angles covered. And the question at hand sure was worth chewing on, Gamling mused, what with the old enemy Wormtongue come slithering back home, presumably on an errand to save his own pitiful soul.

Gamling snorted, and interrupted the King’s exasperated pacing: “You cannot seriously consider this, Éomer. Think of what harm he’s already done, are you willing to let him cause more? Yes, yes,” he continued before Éomer could disrupt him, “I’ve heard that old song of amends and remorse, and here’s what I think of it: chop his head off, neat and simple right there in the lockup. Here, I’ll do it for you. No need to bring one such as he in front of court! You know as well as I, the outcome is much the same. And I say he’s not worth the trouble.”

“Are you done?” Éomer spat, then remembered to whom he was talking. Gamling had been at court since before Éomer was born. He had been a most loyal friend of Théoden, and to Éomer he had offered both friendship and guidance. “Apologies,” he muttered, “but I’ve heard you out already, and my answer is still nay. Though it’s kind of you to offer help with the messy part,” he continued with a slight grin, hoping to smooth things over with the elder man. Gamling gave a sniff, but he granted his King half a smile.

“But I think you may be right,” Éomer continued thoughtfully, “perhaps I shouldn’t bother to call full court. The outcome, as you say, is only too inevitable.”

Gamling frowned. “Do not tell me you’re considering keeping the snake alive? Éomer, it would be most unwise!”

“Right then, I won’t tell you,” Éomer said in a too light tone. “By the way, is there not an old proverb about enemies? That one should keep them close?”

Gamling shook his head vigorously. “Do not put too much trust in old sayings, Éomer King. Cradle a viper and it is sure to bite you, that’s what I say!”

“Sound advice,” Éomer agreed, “could make for a new proverb, perhaps?” Suddenly serious, he turned to face the older man. “Théoden offered him mercy, Gamling, he gave him a chance even though he knew him for a traitor. What kind of King would I be, if I couldn’t do the same?”

“A wise one, probably,” muttered Gamling, but Éomer went on, ignoring him:

“He came all the way back though he didn’t have to. I still have questions for him, but he is resourceful, I’ll give him that. And perhaps it is true that men can change, Gamling. Perhaps I need to believe that they can.”

Or else, what am I, he didn’t say, but a rider still trying to straddle a much too tall horse? If the rider cannot change and become the noble leader his people needs him to be, what then? But if it’s true that a snake can change his way and come crawling all the way back to make amends, then maybe a simple captain can step up and do the duty of a king. And maybe, just maybe his first acts of ruling should be of mercy. No, an execution is no way to start anew in a country that has seen too much blood and darkness already. Let the Wormtongue live, and let him try at proving himself loyal. Let the new reign of Rohan be one of mercy, for now. And, Éomer thought grimly, should it be needed, the sword is always ready in the scabbard for later.


	4. The King’s man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bath and remembrance of old times and injustices

“Well, now,” Gamling said, not bothering in the least to hide his disapproval, “seems you’ll live for now, Wormtongue. This is what the King has decided: you will not be brought to full court, and you will not be executed. You have been granted the King’s mercy,” he continued, glaring unkindly at the man in the lockup, “which means you will be his responsibility. You will remain under the King’s ever watchful eye, and any sidestep from your promises of loyalty will result your certain death. Do you have questions?” the old man’s venomful tone might have made lesser men shudder, but Gríma would have none of that. Not when having just been assured that he would live.

“Just one, my Lord,” he said, using the meekest voice he could manage. When Gamling grunted for him to go on, he continued, eyes cast down; “would it be possible for me to have a bath?” The agitated huffs of the senior courtier made it _so_ worth the effort.

Getting clean in Edoras during the winter was a task meant either for the brave or for the wealthy. The merely dirty had to content themselves with one proper bath, often shared with the family, at winter solstice. Other than that, you would have to wait till spring or else venture into cold waters, as the task of heating enough water for one simple bath was normally not worth the effort for the common citizen, who would get just as dirty the following day. The rich could afford to have servants heating the water to fill a bathtub in front of the fire, so that they may enjoy the luxury of hot water and soap in midwinter. What the Wormtongue had asked for was hours of hard work that hardly the King himself requested unless for special occasions. This Gríma knew, of course, yet it had been so long since he had gotten the chance to bathe, and the main reason he wanted to, besides seeing Gamling fret, was so that he might enter his new life clean and without regrets or dust from the road still clinging on. But even to Gamling’s scornful eye, it was clear that the prisoner was much in need of a proper scrub. Undeniably so, as whatever filth didn’t meet the eye went instead for the nose. To be locked up in a room with this one for further questioning would be worse punishment for the questioner than for the convict, Gamling decided, for the man reeked.

And so, a bath he got, and it was wonderful. The steam of the hot water rose into the air, making fascinating patterns on its way. He’d been given a chamber of his own, much to his surprise, one that had traditionally been reserved for the handmaiden, back when there had still been a queen. His room lay close to the royal chamber, joint together by a narrow hallway through which handmaidens of old had scurried to attend to their queen’s needs. Éomer King’s promise of keeping his traitor under a close watch were not merely words.

He would live for now, and with that, he was content. He would remain under the King’s ever watchful eye and he would make himself useful, in every way. If he wished to stay alive, he would. Éomer King has no reason to trust you, Wormtongue. You are to perform your duties swiftly and without complaint. And there were many duties now that needed done, many a good rider and loyal captain were missing, many a seat needed to be replaced after the War of the Ring. Gríma was hardly idle, and Éomer kept him busy to ensure the former Counsellor had no time to sneak off into dark corners like before, meddling in the affairs of the kingdom or devising new plots.

Éomer King remembered well the reign of the Wormtongue and all the injustices of old. He remembered how the then Counsellor used to sneer and taunt. And the taunts… The taunts were oh, so many, but subtle all the while. Small, vile needles pricking when least expected, seeming to know far too much about things that would be secret, things that should have been known to no one.

The former affection between a young Marshal and one of his riders was one such thing. And while the rider in question had fallen on the Pelennor fields, secretly mourned by he who would now be King, Éomer still found it disagreeable that Gríma Wormtongue knew that old tale, and that he might still keep his eyes and ears open, should there be other such stories about. Back then, Gríma had seemed nearly lecherous when he let on that he might know a thing or two about the comings and goings of one certain rider. Such vile glint as the Wormtongue had then in his eye, it still made the blood boil in the veins of Éomer King. The more he thought of it, however, the curiouser it seemed that Gríma had never let his velvet tongue slip. The former Counsellor must have understood what a scandal such a secret would cause, that it would deal a hard blow to Éomer’s credibility that he could not keep his hands in check. Or, that he would be careless enough to commit such acts under the roof of Meduseld.

Oh, such things were not unheard of, only it was considered that the less was heard about them, the better. They were not outright forbidden, only expected not to exist. And if yet one such thing should be found, it was to be quelled before others might hear of it. It had ever been so, and though Éomer did not know why exactly, he understood that it was hardly appropriate of him to encourage his rider to further visits. The Rohirrim would turn a blind eye to many such affairs, but probably not if it was the business of the Third Marshal, and Éomer had never understood why the Wormtongue had not simply exposed him. He had come to assume that the Counsellor was merely biding his time, wanting to see the Marshal squirm under his prurient gaze, but now, Éomer King had begun to reconsider. Just what had Gríma Wormtongue meant to do with the information?


	5. Rumours and truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll have no more lies from that forked tongue of yours!”

When not attending the King’s interrogations, Gríma Wormtongue was mostly confined to his chamber. The King had not thought it necessary to keep guard at the door, a simple lock would suffice to keep the Wormtongue from lurking about in Edoras. The guards held one set of keys for the main door, Éomer the other, as well as keys to the chambermaid’s hallway for when he needed to deal privately with the traitor.

Éomer had tried his best to put the former Counsellor to good use while in custody. Sorting through and bringing old accounts to order was, to most of his men, a tedious task and one that had been postponed time and time again during the past year, but one that needed doing nonetheless. To the Wormtongue, the job was mainly a matter of digging up information hidden behind the figures, to correct the routs and numbers of certain supplies and to trace displaced records. Not too much of a challenge, since he himself was the one who had displaced most of them in the first place. He had used his skill and made the numbers dance before, now all he had to do was hum a different tune to make them dance back. The task was time consuming, but then, he had worked for years disrupting the affairs of the kingdom. It was, he suppoused, only fair that he should be the one correcting them. To put right his wrongs, one record at the time.

Gríma looked up from the page he had been working on when he heard the key in the door at the far end of the corridor. Forceful footsteps revealed the visitor even before he opened the door; Éomer King never bothered to knock. No pretence at politeness to spare for the wicked, Gríma thought. It wasn’t as if he had the choice to refuse the King entrance, so truly, knocking was rather unnecessary. Gríma started to rise from his seat, but Éomer waved his hand dismissively. He glanced at the documents littering the simple writing desk, then unceremoniously pushed them aside and sat down at the end of the desk.

“My King,” said Gríma by ways of greeting, nodding his head slightly in resemblance of a bow. “have you come for the records? I didn’t expect you would need them so soon.”

“Not the records,” replied Éomer, “I have other questions for you today.”

“I see. Well, if you’ll allow me,” Gríma said, not waiting for an answer before he carefully put his quill back in its stand and replaced the lid of a small bottle of ink. Wiping stains from his hands with a clean handkerchief, he then nodded for the King to go on.

Such arrogance, thought Éomer. Just as if he was the one granting me an audience, making me wait for him to finish up his business! Annoyance made him cut to the chase more quickly than he had intended;

“Tell me what you remember of Hémfal,” he said abruptly, thinking to himself that he must remember to have Wormtongue summoned in the future, never to seek him out like this. Old habits die hard. In the past, he had often been the one to go find Gríma, since the Counsellor would not always answer to his call, claiming to have more important matters at hand. It had made him furious then, and it still made him angry. But Éomer King swallowed his foul temper, reminding himself that the tables were turned. Now, the Wormtongue would never again fail to show up once summoned, nor would he fail to tell his King all that he wanted to know.

“Hémfal?” said Gríma in a mildly bemused voice. “The rider who was part of your eored, you mean?” as Éomer nodded shortly, Gríma went on; “I hardly knew him other than by looks. A tall fellow, was he not? Brown hair, small beard. Used to brand his belongings with a winged horse, I believe,” Gríma made a small pause and pursed his lips slightly. “Perhaps he dreamt of flying,” he added as an afterthought, his expression letting on what he thought of such fancies. “Why do you ask, my lord?”

“It is I who ask the questions,” Éomer barked, “and they are not for you to dispute. Now, tell me all you really know of Hémfal. You were ever the one to know too much about everybody, so spill it!”

Gríma looked at him quizzically. “It really is all I know, my lord. My _King_. I did not have the pleasure of being well acquainted with the man.” And to Éomer’s ears, there was a slight emphasis on the word ‘pleasure’.

“I’ll have no more lies from that forked tongue of yours!” he exclaimed. “From now on, you must not tell lies, Wormtongue. You will tell your King nothing but truths!” Éomer leaned forward, grasped Gríma by the collar and pulled him halfway out of his chair. Gríma’s breath quickened, but his tone was nearly as calm as before when he replied, heavy lidded eyes meeting Éomer’s with a steady gaze:

“The truth, Éomer King? I hardly know many truths about him. I do know,” he hastened to add, as Éomer shot him a murderous look, “My King, I know of many rumours, hearsays and half-truths. I will tell you those, should you wish to hear them?”

“Do go on,” Éomer grunted, releasing the Wormtongue and leaning back to listen, arms folded firmly over his chest. “Remember, no lies.”

“No lies,” Gríma agreed, calmly adjusting his clothes, “but my King, rumours do not always bear truth. If what I know is not correct, then please have understanding. I will tell what I’ve heard said, but I cannot assure you all verifies.” As Éomer nodded impatiently, Gríma went on;

“Hémfal, son of Helmfeld, was said to be a cheerful man, always ready for a laugh or a good story. He seemed to have many friends, and was often to be found in the company of others. He enjoyed riding and swordplay for exercise, but dreaded killing, so I’ve come to understand, even when the enemy was orc or worse. Yet, when the eored came back after a raid, he was usually the merriest, especially if he had gotten blood on his blade. He wanted the dark thoughts to go away, so he sang the loudest and drank the most. The morning after he would be in a foul mood, I’m told.” Gríma paused, glancing up at his King. Éomer nodded slowly. Never before had he quite realized the range of information Gríma had been capable of sniff out. Hearing him speak about Hémfal, thought Éomer, was almost like listening to his own memories. Yet, Gríma claimed he hadn’t known the man. As he hadn’t been urged to stop, Gríma continued;

“He was popular with the ladies, it seems. He wouldn’t lack company during cold nights, but he never had to ask for it or pursue anyone. He much preferred beer to wine, and his favourite dish was stewed carrots. But he also loved the taste of fresh radishes, and would ask for them at any season at all. There was talk,” Gríma said lightly, “of a kitchen maid who tried to grow radishes in the scullery in the middle of winter, only because she was fond of Hémfal. I don’t think he ever heard about it,” he added, as if to emphasize that maybe the tale wasn’t quite true. Still, it resonated within Éomer, and he thought that yes, it probably was. Hémfal had held a certain view of the world, and sometimes, the world had tried hard not to disappoint him. If the kitchen maid had been successful with her radishes, Hémfal would have taken them for granted, midwinter or no. He had been cheerful and easy going, but had not always paid too much attention to his surroundings. He had hated killing, and he had loved the taste of fresh radishes. And, thought Éomer, he had been loved. Remembering that the Wormtongue was still there, waiting, Éomer urged him to go on;

“Tell me what you know of his comings and goings in Meduseld”. Gríma put on a confronted look, but said meekly:

“He was allowed to come and go freely within the Golden Hall, to attend court or feast alike. That is as much as I know, my lord, I believe you knew him better than I.”

“Enough,” bellowed Éomer, “you know well of what I speak, do not try to sneak your way out of it. You once let on that you knew much of Hémfal’s comings and goings, now has come the time to share what you think you know. Get on with it!”

“I… ,“ Gríma started, “it… was only ever hearsay, my lord. My king. Gossip. It could hardly be called truth,” he tried, desperately hoping to avoid that old subject. That time, he had held a small advantage over Éomer. Now, he began to fear that Éomer King would soon hold one over him.


	6. Speak for your life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s something you’re not telling me, and I would know what it is!”

Éomer King was pleased. He was beginning to strike a nerve, he thought, since Gríma Wormtongue seemed so uneager to share all that he knew of those old rumours about a rider named Hémfal. Éomer leaned slightly forward, firmly placing his hands on his thighs.

“Do you not think I would enjoy listening to gossip, Wormtongue? But you seemed so eager to tell me, back when Hémfal and Théoden King were both alive. Surely the rumours must have been something spectacular?”

Gríma’s calm appearance was beginning to slide, his eyes were darting around the room as if searching for a way out, but there was none. If you start to say one thing, Gríma Wormtongue, if you start showing off small beads of gossip, you shall have to reveal all of them, placing them neatly one after another until you get a pearly necklace of truth to offer your King. And once you have given it, he may very well use that necklace to strangle you. Because by then, Gríma Wormtongue, Éomer King will know as much about you as you know about him, and who knows to what end he’ll use that information? Better if he didn’t learn, but it was far too late by now. Éomer’s memory was sharp, and Gríma thought himself the fool for having assumed the King would have forgotten about old wounds. To have the King’s mercy did not mean the Wormtongue could get too comfortable, for he might just as soon lose it.

“Why so silent?” Éomer went on, “I cannot remember ever having left you speechless. Here, I’ll get you back on track; you will start with what you whispered to me back then. And you will tell me no more lies, Wormtongue, not if you wish to remain alive!”

Finally, Gríma gave up all pretence and sank back in the chair with a sigh. He did still wish to live, he decided. Eyes downcast, he spoke slowly: “I had been told that Hémfal the rider had been seen in the Golden Hall at strange hours. As anything out of the ordinary is worth investigating, I had the man followed and received information that he seemed to be here during the early morning hours or else too late at night. I assumed he was having an affair with one of the maids,” Gríma shrugged, “and I would have left it at that. What riders and maids get up to at night does not count for much, as far as gossip is considered,” he continued. “But then I learned that it was near your quarters that Hémfal had been seen, and I became curious.”

“Do go on,” said Éomer. Though Gríma couldn’t see the King’s face, he imagined Éomer wore that stern frown of his. Closing his eyes in an attempt to block out the image, he reluctantly continued:

“I saw for myself, my lord. I saw Hémfal leave your chambers in the morning. I watched him, and he behaved no different than many men do when they leave a lover’s bed. Of course, I had no proof of what I was beginning to suspect, but I started to observe him closely. Eventually, when I felt certain, I sent a rumour flying to see if I could somehow verify my idea. And then, my King, I went to you.”

“You came to torment me,” Éomer spat. Gríma, eyes still closed, nodded.

“But you did not yield, my King.” he said, smooth velvet voice seeking to calm. It had worked before, but Éomer was not to be so easily led astray. Not anymore.

“You whispered of rumours, snake, and how you would soon let those rumours run free. Yet, I assumed you must have thought better of it, since no such talk ever reached my ear, even though I would not give in to your extortion.”

“My King, I guess I did think better of it,” Gríma glanced up, his face a stiff mask, careful to reveal no particular expression. But Éomer still did not look convinced.

“Yet, you just said you did let a rumour fly, even before you went to me. This does not add up, Wormtongue,” he said, looking sharply at the man before him. “There’s something you’re not telling me, and I would know what it is!”

Eyes back at the floor, Gríma muttered something indistinct. It was clear he had something to share, for sure. Something he would rather have kept to himself.

Back in the days when Gríma Wormtongue had been Counsellor to the King, he had worked very hard at extracting and gathering information, knowing it well for currency in the company he kept. He had been balancing on a sharp edge, trying his best to corrupt the Kingdom in favour of Orthanc, while at the same time keeping up the appearance of a concerned and loyal servant to his liege. Once he had established his position he had been quite secure, a man under the protection of King and Saruman both, not someone many wise men would try to challenge. To his very surprise, the subtle threat placed within the rumour he had planted for Hémfal’s ears had been completely disregarded. The man had not run to Éomer, as Gríma had anticipated, to confirm the threat and make the Marshal cringe, as intended. He had instead marched straight up to the Counsellor’s study and, upon finding him alone, challenged him just as he would under different circumstances, have a rival. Baring his blade in the Golden Hall to the unarmed Gríma would have sentenced Hémfal to death by the laws, royal rider or no. He didn’t go that far, but Gríma did not doubt him when he said he might. Clever words were of no help to Gríma that day. Hémfal knew well where the most vicious rumours tended to start, and had figured out for himself a way to make them stop. Yet, the mere threats of violence he had planned would never had gained the effect he was after. No, the reason the rumours had not reached Éomer’s ears, nor anyone else’s, was another.

Éomer was growing impatient with the Wormtongue. But Gríma could not bring himself to tell what had happened next. The memory, he thought, was humiliating, yet to speak of it made it seem much worse. Hidden behind a curtain of black hair, Gríma’s pale cheeks had begun to colour.

“Perhaps,” said Éomer when it seemed clear to him that no more words would come, “I should have dealt with you differently. You seem to be taking liberties, Wormtongue. Off course, it’s not too late for me to reconsider,” he added, easing the sword in his scabbard. Gríma shot him a terrified look.

“I still wish to hear the whole story. But if you are not willing to give it to me…“ Éomer left the sentence hanging, awaiting a reply.

Gríma swallowed hard. He did not doubt Éomer’s word. As the King fingered his sword gingerly, he gave in: “My Lord, wait. I will tell you everything.” Though I doubt that you will like what you hear, he didn’t say.


	7. The Rider and the Traitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wormtongue seemed truly embarrassed, having to confess such a shameful defeat. How he, the master of blackmail, had fallen into a trap himself!

So, the thought of cold steel might yet loosen his tongue, thought Éomer contently as Gríma carried on with retelling of his encounter with Hémfal. That the rider had went straight to the source of ill tattle didn’t much surprise Éomer. Hémfal had been both brave and clever, although Éomer wondered how he’d gotten away without facing any reprisals from the Counsellor.

However, as he got to this part of the story, Gríma’s tongue lost speed, and he still seemed reluctant to continue. Placing one hand meaningfully at the hilt of his sword, Éomer waited. He had almost lost faith any more would come, when Gríma finally let out a sigh and started talking:

“He was a big fellow, Hémfal. Intimidating, I thought, but myself, I was never a man of much strength. I thought my words and my position would be enough to scare him off, but I was wrong. Hémfal did not care, not when we were alone in that study with no witnesses. He came at me,” Gríma explained, “and I guess he meant to hurt me less I promised to make the rumours stop. Well, I could have dealt with that,” he mumbled, remembering the countless fists and blows he’d had to endure before in his life. Such pain could be dealt with, surely. What had happened with Hémfal was much different.

A sniff from Éomer made him continue; “He came at me, and he grabbed my throat, as if to strangle me. It was quite unpleasant, I assure.” Gríma guessed that any admittance of pain on his side would please Éomer, who had himself tried something similar once before. That time, things had worked out more in favour of Gríma Wormtongue.

However, as Hémfal the rider had come up close and pushed him violently against the wall, Gríma’s body had responded in a most surprising way. Hémfal had noticed, and he had put on a wicked smile, impulsively letting a hand slide down between them to touch the undisputable evidence that the Counsellor, quite unexpectedly, seemed to rather enjoy this encounter. Cupping his hand around Gríma’s hard bulge, Hémal had then pressed himself against him, as if letting the Wormtongue know that the pleasure was, certainly, on the rider’s side. The faint gasp that had escaped Gríma’s lips did not go unnoticed, and Hémfal started to rub his hand rhythmically against Gríma’s arousal. The sensation had made Gríma gulp for air and he had clung on to the rider, rather than trying to push him off. Breathing heavily into Gríma’s ear, Hémfal hastily began to undo the Counsellors buttons and lacings, pulling open his robes and making his way to touch naked skin. Gríma had whimpered, tugging hard at the other man’s shirt, shy to touch the muscular arms underneath. He was lost in the moment, caught between his own abashment and the rider’s raw display of lust. Never before had he felt desired, yet the other man showed no signs of distaste, rather the opposite. Was it a display of power? Yes, but then, not only that. The rider himself seemed to have lost all concept of sense and modesty as he was roughly laying his hands on the Counsellor’s body. Perhaps, as Gríma thought much later, it had been an outlet for one of Hémfal’s foul moods. The rider did not like killing, after all, not even as a mean by which he could threaten traitors. Whatever the reason, Hémfal had come across an eager participant to whatever game he had in mind, and he seemed intent on seeing that game through.

A hoarse cry escaped Gríma’s lips as Hémfal’s hand at long last found its way into his trousers and closed around his full length. Pausing only to stroke him a few times, the rider then abruptly grabbed the Counsellor by his shoulders and began lowering him to the ground. Flustered, Gríma had tried to protest but his attempts were useless against Hémfal’s strength. Instead, his resistance caused the rider to stumble so that they both ended up in a pile on the floor. Hémfal, irritably shaking his hair out of his face, had regarded the Counsellor silently through narrow eyes. Grima, who by now didn’t rightly know what he feared most: that the rider would stay or that he would leave, had lain there, staring at Hémfal as if spellbound. If ever he had wondered what a mouse might feel as the cat approaches, by now he thought he had a pretty good idea.

But in the end, it was he who had pleadingly raised his hands and placed them at the rider’s upper arms, gently pulling him down. He had but the slightest idea of what he was attempting. A novel sensation and an exciting one at that, not to be in control of events. Hémfal had complied, much to Gríma’s relief, and had proceeded to work at the layers of clothing. As the rider had managed to free him of his robes and cloak, Gríma forestalled him by pulling at Hémfal’s shirt, until finally both their upper bodies were clothless. Boldly tracing the rider’s shapely torso with his fingers, Gríma marvelled at the sight. Never before had he been aware that a man’s body could be beautiful, such joy for the hand to feel. His own body, to his mind, did hardly seem pleasant by comparison. However, before he got a chance to explore further, he was grabbed firmly by the waist and flipped onto his belly. Kneeling over him, Hémfal promptly proceeded to remove his trousers. Before now, no sense of fear had occurred to Gríma, only a puzzled sort of excitement, as if he did not quite believe any of this was really happening, thinking that it more resembled a feverish dream. He did not know much of what one man might do to another, never truly having considered it before. It was not something commonly spoken of in Edoras. But as Hémfal started to massage his buttocks, Gríma began to get a good idea of how this might proceed. He was in no way used to feeling desired, true, but he did have some little experience, just enough to let him imagine what it was Hémfal had in mind. Suddenly discouraged, he attempted to get up, but was firmly held in place by strong arms. As he seemed to have lost all of his eloquence all off the sudden, he could think of no protest when the other man moistened a finger and traced it between his buttocks, finding his rear entrance. It was not precisely unpleasant, but strange enough to make him want to get up, to catch his breath and to perhaps regain some of his composure. Gríma tried to squirm loose. Hémfal would have none of that but instead held him steadily while freeing his own cock from its restraining layers of cloth and quickly moistening it, using his saliva. Pulling the other man up on hands and knees, Hémfal placed his strong hands on Gríma’s hips and urged him to keep still, less it might hurt more than necessary. And as Gríma fearfully closed his eyes, Hémfal began to force his entrance.

The last thing Gríma would have expected by now was for the rider to be gentle. But he did go slowly, thrusting cautiously yet determinedly, getting deeper with each careful movement. Though there was a certain pain to it, it was by no means overwhelming, clearly because the rider knew what he was about. Drawing a shallow breath of relief, Gríma relaxed, granting him a satisfied grunt from Hémfal as he pushed himself as deep as would go, pausing for a moment to place his hand on Gríma’s crotch. To his own surprise, Gríma noticed that he was still hard and anxious to satisfy his need. Experimentally, he arched his back and pushed slightly backwards, then moved carefully forward, attempting to thrust into Hémfal’s hand. The effect was rewarding. Hémfal let out a hoarse, nondescript noise and closed his hand around Gríma’s cock. Regaining the initiative, the rider began to move, establishing a steady rhythm. Gríma soon found that when he pushed back to match the movements, Hémfal would simultaneously tighten his grip, allowing Gríma to thrust along with him. The joint sensation was of pain and pleasure both, but as the rhythm quickened and made him break into a sweat, he found it all the more gratifying, soon forgetting any initial discomfort. Breathing heavily, he could feel himself approaching his climax, waves of heat rolling over him as he let out a stifled cry, caring for nothing now but the other man’s steady thrusts and his greedy hands upon his body. As if following a signal, Hémfal let himself go over the edge, pulling a slightly trembling Gríma along with him as they both came, heavy body coming to rest on top of slender, contentedly wrapping arms around a pale chest with a heart beating hard enough that its owner thought it might be trying to escape.

Lying still on the floor, Gríma sought to steady his breath. Hémfal’s hands were still on him, inattentively caressing him and Gríma wondered briefly if the rider had in mind to get him back to size and start over. But then, the moment was gone. Hémfal started to withdraw, and the cold air of the room came pushing in, reminding Gríma of who and where they were. The chill made him shiver, but his cheeks were suddenly burning hot with embarrassment. Pulling his cloak around him for cover, he remained on the floor as the rider stood to adjust his clothing. When Hémfal spoke, at long last, he spoke true, and Gríma could not deny it. If, after this, the Counsellor would ever try to confirm any rumours of Éomer, or else any rider of Edoras, he would as soon have to confess his own desires. Hémfal would see to that, and Gríma believed him. The Wormtongue, admitting defeat, hung his head and swore to comply.

But now, the rider was dead, and it was to the ever distrustful face of Éomer King that these truths would somehow have to be delivered. Gríma tried his best, carefully telling the story in as few words as he could possibly manage, all the while attempting to edit out the most intimidating parts. When he had finished, at long last, it was past midnight and he had talked his mouth dry. Wearily, he sagged in the chair, awaiting the King’s reaction.

“So,” said Éomer at long last, “this would be your version of telling the truth?” he was dubious. “You said you did not know Hémfal, but now you’re claiming to have been quite closely acquainted with him. Either, you’ve cooked up this here tale, or else you have been lying to me all the while before. I warned you, did I not? I did warn you that I would accept no lies from you. And yet…” Éomer broke off, studying the former Counsellor intently. He did not fully believe what he had just been told, but still, why would the Wormtongue make up such a disgraceful story? There was a certain logic here, one that Éomer King didn’t quite like to admit.

“My King, I have told many lies in my life,” Gríma pleaded, his usual velvet voice now raucous. “But not today. I stuck to the truth, just as you requested.”

Éomer considered the weary look in Gríma’s face. He really hadn’t seemed his same old self when retelling his story, not the slightest smirk or smug expression to suggest he was withholding any scrap of information. The Wormtongue seemed truly embarrassed, having to confess such a shameful defeat. How he, the master of blackmail, had fallen into a trap himself! And even though the nature of that trap was not something Éomer liked to accept, he eventually had to admit that he did. It did not seem too uncharacteristic for Hémfal to have tried such a trick, the man had always been bold, perhaps beyond what was healthy for him.

“Maybe you have,” Éomer conceded, “but then, I don’t think you were precisely honest from the start, Wormtongue. You claimed you knew next to nothing about him!”

“My Liege. I did not,” said Gríma, exhausted. “There was but one encounter! And after that, the gossip stopped. He made me put an end to the rumours, less he’d add to them. I was not in a position where I could afford that.”

Éomer King also felt tired. He’d gotten what he’d asked for, but it wasn’t, he felt, what he’d wanted. He needed to clear his head and decide what to make of this new information. He rose, saying:

“Well. Honest or no, you have given me much to think about. We will resume this conversation, Wormtongue, and I do believe you will try to be more apt at telling truths than before.” Pausing in the doorway, he turned to look at the traitor, but Gríma had buried his face in his hands and did not look back as Éomer closed the door and locked it, fierce footsteps disappearing down the hallway.


	8. Benefits of the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A renewal of allegiance. This man is to be considered, once more, a man of Rohan.

Well now, Éomer King. You’ve heard the truth from the mouth of the traitor, just as you said you wanted. It wasn’t really what you had wished to hear, but such is often the nature of truth; she cares naught if you wish for her or no, truth cares only to be delivered. And such deliverance! In a sudden outburst of petulance, Éomer kicked over one of the chairs in the small audience chamber that was used for less ceremonious assemblies or councils.

It was hard to say what vexed him the most; to hear that his once lover had gone and bedded the traitor they had once shared a passionate hatred for, or his discovery of how he felt about this, exactly. Angry, yes, and in a sense betrayed by Hémfal, that he would have been with another during their time together. On the other hand, Éomer felt strangely proud to hear that his rider would have gone to such lengths to protect his reputation. And then, there was the faint thrill he had tried hard to deny while listening to the traitor, but it had come back all the stronger as he had thought the story over again, imagining the two of them together. He had been quite distraught upon realizing that he found the picture quite arousing. Not only where Hémfal was considered, either: Éomer King feared he might never look at Gríma Wormtongue the same way again.

Steadying himself, he decided to quell any such notion immediately. The mere idea that such a snake might…! Ludicrous, thought Éomer, and put the chair carefully back to its old place. This was not a time to be hot headed, he reminded himself, as he heard footsteps approaching the door.

A gentle knock, and as Éomer granted entrance by a simple “Come,” the Wormtongue himself entered the room, escorted by a guard and by Gamling, as well as by Feola, Matron of the keys. She was the most influential servant of the Golden Hall, running the household with a firm hand and keeping all servants in check. If the steady woman was flustered over being in this unusual presence of the King, she did not let it on, but curtsied promptly and took to standing next to Gamling over at the table, while Gríma Wormtongue was made to kneel in front of the King and the guard took a few steps back. It was time to begin.

Éomer cleared his throat slightly, regarding Gríma’s uncharacteristically timid appearance. He had looked around the room absently, then kneeled obediently when prompted by the guard and was now looking down, heavy eyelids shading his thoughts of the occasion.

“Gríma, son of Gálmód, former Counsellor of Rohan,” Éomer began his formal statement, “you have been called here today so that you may pledge anew allegiance to your King and country. This man,” he continued, “has vowed to pay for his crimes and he has been granted the King’s mercy. When he has made his pledge in front of you, he will no longer be considered a prisoner. He will remain under this roof but he will have some liberty to move freely in the city, should he wish to.” Éomer turned to Gamling and the Matron, called as witnesses of the house. They both nodded. Gríma had not moved a muscle, but continued his persistent study of the floor. Éomer found that the man’s resigned behaviour was getting on his nerves.

“Gríma, son of Gálmod, known in Edoras as Wormtongue, do you hereby pledge yourself to Rohan and to its rule, to do no work but in the favour of the country, less you face the penalty of our laws?”

Gríma looked up at last, feeling a slight tinge of annoyance that Éomer should include his nasty nickname into the ceremonial vows, but he decided to let it go, simply intonating the formal reply; “I, Gríma son of Gálmód do pledge myself to my King and to my country, that I might make amends for previous errors.”

“And do you also swear, _Wormtongue_ , to carry out any and every duty bestowed upon you by your King?” Éomer’s addition to the usual vows made Gamling turn his head in surprise, but he remembered that was there as a witness, not an advisor, and so he kept his peace.

Gríma gave a start, blue eyes looking angrily into hazel ones. “I swear it, Éomer King,” he said at long last, trying hard not to make the answer come out a sneer. That whelp, he thought furiously, what is he up to? But he realized all too well that he was in no position to argue the pledge, and so instead he bit back his irritation and bowed his head deep, waiting for the King to finish.

“Then, your allegiance has been renewed,” said Éomer, a slight tone of satisfaction in his voice. “This man will from now on be bound to his pledge, and is to be considered, once more, a man of Rohan. Witnesses, will you bear testimony of this?”

“We will,” said Gamling, and Feola echoed him. The guard then went to remove the shackles so that Gríma might rise.

You were once a man of Rohan, Gríma Wormtongue. Now, it would seem you are to be one, once more.

He would be put to work, so Éomer said, for there were many things to be done and The Golden hall could not rightly afford having a capable man sitting idly in his chamber, much less spare the men to guard him. After the Wormtongue’s confession, Éomer King had found time to think things through long and hard, and come to the conclusion that Gríma Wormtongue, once he’d made his pledge, could be of more use as a free man than as a prisoner, albeit a free man under supervision. Éomer did not trust Gríma much, but he was inclined to believe that the former Counsellor wouldn’t do any harm, less he be charged again with treason. In which case he would be promptly executed, as Éomer had made clear to him.

And to work he was put. Éomer did enjoy to send Gríma scurrying off, taking great pleasure in the way his newest servant would comply to every request, as opposed to his nonchalant manner in days past. Gríma, on his hand, found he did not much mind working hard, trying his hand at various reparations under Gamling’s watchful eye or going errands for the Matron of keys. He did, however, clench his fists when given direct orders from the King, perceiving them often as ill-disguised provocations. Which, in truth, they were. Éomer King was indulging in some quite satisfactory revenge, up until the point where Gamling decided to intervene and remind him that such manners were hardly worthy of a King who sought to be just. Also, Gamling added, just because the Wormtongue appeared to be quelled and obedient, it would not do to carry on taunting him. He was still potentially a very dangerous man, and Éomer King would do best not to forget it! And, because it was Gamling, Éomer accepted the reprimand. No, it would not do, he decided, to push Gríma into open treason once more only to have the pleasure of getting to slay him. Gamling was right, a King must not be petty-minded. Yet, he would miss browbeating Gríma, would miss the vexed look the other man always hastened to hide behind graceful bows and “Yes, my Lord”. There was still something about the Wormtongue that made the King itch.


	9. Of secrets whispered in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You wish to know if I keep secrets? But surely any man of Rohan must be allowed to have some secrets. Is that not so, my King?”

“Stay for a while,” said Éomer, “I have a matter that I wish to discuss with you.”

Gríma, who had delivered a dusty ledger and some requested documents to the King’s study and had begun to bow his way out, turned back to stand aside Éomer’s working desk. It was a large, sturdy table, littered with maps and various items that the King thought important. Éomer, making room to sit on the edge of the table, gestured vaguely towards an empty armchair. As Gríma sat himself down, he wondered idly why it was that the King was so prone to sit or lean at tables, windowsills or even pillars rather than resting comfortably in a chair. Perhaps, he thought, it was because Éomer’s energy wouldn’t allow him to remain still for too long. The man would bounce up and move around the room as he talked, especially if he was excited about something. Today, however, Éomer seemed as calm as he ever was, although drumming lightly at the table top as if unaware he was doing so.

Waiting silently, Gríma wondered if the King had called him because of some new inane task he’d thought of. Éomer had not sent him to do dirty work or heavy lifting for some time now, but had left him mostly to deal with repairing and bringing to order the corrupt matters of the state. Any order given to him of late had come through Gamling, and Gríma thought the old man might have something to do with the decreased taunts from Éomer, but he could not bring himself to ask. Doing so, he thought, would be the same as to admit defeat, and Gríma Wormtongue had made his mind up about staying alive and repaying his debt to Rohan. No mere whelp, be he King or no, would keep him from the path of atonement he had made for himself.

Éomer suddenly stopped drumming his fingers, appearing to have found the thought he’d been looking for. He turned to look intently at Gríma, parting his lips slowly, as if shaping them around words he did not yet know the sound of. But when he finally spoke, his voice was clear and steady.

“Recently, we spoke at length of truth. Do you remember the conversation I’m referring to?”

Gríma, slightly taken aback, raised a brow slightly. “How could I not?” he answered, reluctantly.

A confirming nod, and Éomer continued, “Very well. And I’m pleased to see you still understand the concept,” he added.

Annoyed, Gríma opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by Éomer; “I thought to myself, why, if the Wormtongue had one such precious secret, the perhaps there are other secrets worth knowing as well? And if there are, I would know about them,” he said, adopting a stern look.

Gríma tilted his head slightly to the side. “You wish to know if I keep secrets? But surely any man of Rohan must be allowed to have some secrets. Is that not so, my King,” was his dry reply.

“I think you know well what I mean,” spat Éomer, “And I would know any such tale. Now, speak!”

Gríma’s head was still to the side, his eyes slowly regarding the King. “Tales such as that of the rider? I believe not. As to any other secret, I guess you shall have to find out.”

“What is that suppoused to mean?” Éomer attempted to outstare Gríma, but was rewarded with naught but a blank look. Too blank a look. As an old suspicion floated up to conscious mind and took hold, Éomer blurted out; “Is this about my sister, Wormtongue? Is this about Éowyn?”

Gríma looked away momentarily, a pained look in his eye, but he quickly turned back to face the King. “No secrets there,” he said tonelessly, “none but what the whole kingdom already knows. I desired the Lady Éowyn, yes. It is true that I wanted her for my own. But she would have none of me, and that’s all there is to it.” He gave Éomer a skew look. “My lord, I hope you don’t expect me to tell of every pitiful attempt to court her,” he continued, “I do not doubt she will have already told you any such story herself, and colourfully at that. No, my King,” he said ruefully, “I hold no such secrets about your sister.”

Éomer got up at this, thoughtfully biting his lower lip while pacing around the room. He seemed oddly displeased with the statement. Gríma wondered briefly whether the King was fishing after gossip now, but then Éomer came to a halt, raising a finger accusingly;

“And what,” said he, “of your conversations in the night, what of your endless encounters in otherwise empty hallways? She told me of those,” he continued, looking fierce, “but would tell naught of what you had said to her.”

Gríma seemed to hesitate, the tip of his tongue moistening pale lips. Then, he continued slowly; “My Lord, in that case, perhaps you are right. There may be secrets still. But those secrets,” he carried on crisply, “Éomer King, those secrets are hardly mine to tell. You must go to the Lady herself, should you wish to know more about them.”  

Baffled, Éomer stared at the Wormtongue. Knowing what was at stake, he’d still straighten his back and claim his integrity. Perceiving this, Gríma continued in a soft murmur; “My King, had I been here today pledging allegiance to the Lady Éowyn as my Queen ruler, would you have thought it fair of her to demand I tell her of every conversation I have ever had with her brother? Would you not much prefer to tell her yourself things that you thought might be of importance to her?”

Éomer nodded, reluctantly admitting to the fairness of this reasoning. However, his voice was spiteful as he carried on; “Know that I have sent word to her of your return, Wormtongue. She may have her own questions for you, and I deem it just that she will see them answered, should she wish to.”

Gríma nodded. “My lord, I will of course subject myself to any such questioning,” he replied humbly, perhaps just a shade of glee to his voice. But it could just as easily have been imagined.

All the same, Éomer said curtly; “Don’t get ideas, Wormtongue. I doubt she will travel to Rohan herself to question one such as you. Just know that you are to respond to anything she might want to know.”

“Of course, my lord,” Gríma replied, eyes cast down as before, hiding any possible emotion. “As you rule, I find just.”


	10. Snow lanterns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éomer realized that he had come to think of Gríma as the former traitor, just as he was former Counsellor. Would the Wormtongue ever be anything but the former something to his mind, he wondered.

As Éomer was learning to be a ruler just and firm and Gríma Wormtongue adjusted to his new positon in life, the months passed by. Cold winter nights turned to bird song and spring, the summer solstice came and went. Leaves fell from the trees once again, and soon more than a year had passed since a former Counsellor had entered these lands in his search for redemption. It was winter once more, and a colder one than Rohan had seen in many years. On the ever windy plains, snow blew harshly in the face of any traveller who ventured out, and the wind piled up snow against the hill upon which lay proud Edoras. Men swore over it, once the women made them go outside to shovel it aside to make paths between different buildings. The children, of course, were happy to slide on the snow, although it was by far too cold to mould it into anything much. Éomer found the Wormtongue watching them play one day when the sun had decided to graze them with her presence. Gríma was up on the castle wall, half in shadow as he leaned against the wall of the building. He was looking down at the children, face unreadable.

In the past year, Éomer had become accustomed to the man he would always think of as Wormtongue. The man had yet to do anything wrong by the law during his time back in Meduseld, nor had he failed to carry out any command given. It was true that Gríma would sometimes find curiously creative ways of dealing with or delegating orders that he didn’t much care about seeing to himself, but it is not above anyone to try to ease his own burden, and Gríma always made sure the work requested was thoroughly done. It had been a surprise to find that he had found two young girls from the town to copy down some old accounts that had been entrusted to him, but Gríma explained patiently that he had spotted in both of them exquisite talent in embroidery, and that they, once used to the pen instead of the needle, were quite capable of carrying out the pattern of figures and letter just as neatly as they would do stiches on fancywork. The girls were paid by learning to read what it was they were working on, both assuring that they were allowed by their families to carry out this work and that the payment was acceptable. Éomer King, though trying hard, could find nothing to complain about, and so he eventually allowed Gríma to continue making his own arrangements.

Gríma would watch the girls work, sometimes, closing out the chatter of their voices and thinking back to a time when a young Lady, hardly more than a child, had lit in his heart a light and breathed on it gently until it became a consuming fire. He tried to forgive her, now. It was no fault of hers. She had been but a child, and she was beautiful. He thought that he had always been able to see the woman inside, the one she was to become. He tried to forgive her. He tried to forgive himself.

As Éomer climbed the stairs to the castle wall, Gríma made no sign of recognition, not even as the King came to stand next to him, leaning casually against the balustrade. They stood quiet for a while, and Éomer thought that if he would allow it, the silence of Gríma Wormtongue would speak volumes to him. But he could not allow it, not now, so he said the first thing that came into his mind;

“Do you see your protégés down there among the others?” As the Wormtongue turned to look at him, he got the feeling he had spoiled some shared moment, but it was just as soon gone.

“The girls? They would hardly think of themselves as children, no matter what you or I thought of the matter. And though I know some girls who liked exercise and games well into womanhood,” Éowyn, he didn’t say, but Éomer could hear it all the same, “the two of them are awfully eager to leave childhood behind, judging by their chatter. I doubt that they are down there.”

Éomer decided to try not to quarrel, it was such a pleasant day after all. And to watch children at play had always made him happy. He tried again;

“Did you enjoy snow games as a child?” Gríma did not respond immediately, and Éomer got a good chance to watch the reserved man. Not until then did he realize that he had come to think of Gríma as the former traitor, just as he was former Counsellor. Éomer wondered briefly whether Gríma would ever be anything but the former something to his mind. Former lover of Hémfal, came the thought unbidden, and he tried hard to erase it from his mind. Eventually, Gríma answered;

“I suppouse I didn’t much like them, my Lord. But then, there were some things I enjoyed. Shaping snowballs like a lantern to place a candle inside and to watch it glow as darkness fell, that I liked.” He said it softly, bringing to Éomer’s mind the image of a dark haired child standing in the snow, watching the snow lantern glow and he wanted to know, were you always alone? But he couldn’t bring himself to ask one such an intimate question, not considering the answer already given. It would have been an intrusion, he thought, surprising himself by this sudden sense of tact.

“Join me tonight,” he said impulsively, “we shall talk of times past or else of what lies ahead of us. It will be no interrogation,” he added, “perhaps it is time to move on from that stage. Will you come?”

If the Wormtongue was surprised, he did not let it show. He merely looked at the King, then bowed slightly in acknowledgement. Éomer confirmed his consent by a nod of the head, then turned on his heel and left, fierce steps echoing along the castle wall.

Had that man any more nerve or energy, thought Gríma wryly, he would most certainly explode just like would the powder from Orthanc.


	11. A nightly conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wanted to know his secrets, Éomer King, you wished to know things that no one else knew. Now, what will you do with that knowledge?

The Kingdom of Rohan was in need of a stable rule, the country still recovering from past years’ skirmishes and corruption. Éomer King had sent his best and most trusted men to different parts of the kingdom in an attempt to establish a new order for a more secure rule. The men were to bring back reports of the state of Rohan, as well as to build good relations across the country, and he meant to appoint them Marshals once the most urgent matters had been dealt with. His most trusted men, yes, and also his dearest friends. Without them to raise his mood, Éomer King was getting lonely, even though he was often surrounded by people in court or at council. He was only ever the King, never brother or companion. Perhaps that was why he had decided to send for Gríma. Éomer wished to talk to someone about other things than such as needed doing, or seeing to, or being decided about. He found that he wanted to talk to the man who had enjoyed making snow lanterns as a child and who had grown up to betray his own country. The man who had ruined so much, and who had returned to put his life in the hands of the King. The Wormtongue seemed to wear one layer upon another to shield himself from the world, and yet there was the story about the snow lanterns. Éomer thought, I want to know if there is more where that came from.

As evening arrived, there was a knock on the door. Soft, as if the one knocking would just as soon have no answer. Éomer King heard it, however, and made his way over to open. Gríma came with no candle of his own, pale face standing out in contrast to the shadows in the corridor as the light of the room spilled out. He entered the room slowly, carefully arranging his cloak as he sat down at the appointed seat. No longer in possession of title or riches, Gríma would not wear fine velvet nor elaborate clothing like he once used to, but had taken instead to wearing a heavy woollen cloak of the darkest cloth. He did not remove it; despite candles and a lit fireplace, the rooms of the Golden Hall were cold in winter.

Settling himself in the other armchair, Éomer offered some mulled wine from a pitcher, handing it to Gríma before he poured up some for himself. Conversation, he found, did not come easy. Gríma would sip his wine slowly and answer in short sentences, thinking long before speaking. He has become used to being interrogated, Éomer realized. Ever watchful, he’s still trying to predict which questions will come, thinking of how to answer them without revealing any of his precious secrets.

Éomer decided to try a different strategy. “I was thinking,” he said, “as I watched the children play in the snow today. In the winter games, there are always those who try to build something, and those who seek to bring down the snowmen, children who seem to take delight in destroying what others have created. And I thought, perhaps it’s possible to determine from an early age, who will grow up to build and who will be the one to tear things down.” He paused to see whether his words had caused some sort of reaction, but Gríma merely inclined his head to show that yes, he was listening. Do go on. Éomer continued, “I thought of that, when you told me of your snow lanterns. And I remembered that, as a lad, I was only ever interested in snowball fights, never to make something out of snow. Yet here I am, building and creating as ruler. And I thought that perhaps I was wrong earlier, about the children.”

He left the sentence open, looking expectantly at Gríma. The former Counsellor glanced down into his cup as if he thought perhaps a good answer would lie in it. At long last, he said;

“You wish to know if the ones who are building things in the snow will always continue to build, and if the ones who would destroy their work will always continue to do so?” Éomer nodded affirmatively. “Well, my Lord,” Gríma continued, “I suppouse that in the world there must be light and darkness, and so I guess there must be builders and destroyers, too.” He fell silent, turning his cup in his hand, long white fingers caressing the exquisite craft. “I suppouse,” he said at long last, “that they are sometimes the same person.”

“Is that how you think of yourself?” asked Éomer, perhaps too bluntly. Gríma merely shrugged and looked away, retreating from the King’s questions.

Éomer, determined not to give the conversation up, carried on; “Tell me a thing about yourself. Something no one else knows.” He had tried speaking metaphorically, but this, he felt, was not his greatest strength. A direct approach had always granted results in the past, so he settled for that.

Gríma gave him a disapproving look; “I shall try to think of yet another secret, you mean? My lord,” he added sourly.

“Ever the testy one,” said Éomer calmly. “I did not mean like it that. Merely that I wish to know something about you. I am told,” he added mockingly, “this is how people get to know each other.”

“You wish to befriend me now, my Lord?” Gríma did not look convinced. “You have asked me more questions than I knew I held the answer to, and yet you believe there is more to know?” he sighed. “Very well, if it is a request from my King, I must try to think of an answer.”

Éomer had not intended his question as a command, and he felt slight guilt that the man interpreted is as such. But as it seemed to result in an answer of sorts, the King held his tongue.

As the fire crackled, Gríma thought of what to say. Something than no one else knows about you, Gríma Wormtongue, does that mean no one now living or no one ever? You could tell your King of a certain bruise or birthmark, but that’s not it, is it? Éomer King wants to know something personal, something special. Do you have such a thing to offer your King?

Eventually, an idea came to the surface. Yes, he could tell of that. It was a bit embarrassing, perhaps, but not more so than anything else the King had already heard. It was private, and he was most certain that no one, live or no, knew about it.

“My, King,” he began, “It could hardly be called a secret that I often ask for extra blankets for my bed.” Éomer gave him a blank look, and Gríma hastened to continue; “Any chambermaid could tell you as much. But I will tell you the reason why I always ask for them.”

Éomer raised an impatient eyebrow. “Could it be that you are cold in the night,” he asked. “Many are, and not only in midwinter. If this is what you call a secret… “

“No, that is not it,” Gríma interjected, “I would tell you why I always ask for those blankets. If you’d hear it, my Lord,” he hastened to add.

Éomer shrugged. “Very well, if you think it a story worth telling, then by all means, do go on.”

“My Lord,” Gríma continued in a quiet voice, “I ask for them because they keep me warm at night, but not only for that. I ask for them because the heavy layers of blankets somewhat resemble an embrace. And because they are the closest thing to it I think I shall ever get.” He fell silent, awaiting the King’s reaction.

Éomer frowned. “Is this what you meant to tell me? Have you not thought to find a real pair of arms to keep you warm at night?”

Gríma laughed bitterly at this. Did the man truly not understand? “My Lord, in all the kingdom, I do not think there is one pair of arms willing to hold one such as me, except perhaps for the kind who ask for silver in return. And those, my Lord, never prove to be as tender or as comforting as advertised. For one thing, they never stay to keep the warmth all through the night.” He fell silent.

Éomer seemed genuinely surprised. “So… there has been… no one?” Éowyn, he didn’t say, and Gríma pretended no to hear it. He shook his head.

“Not since…” Gríma trailed off, unwilling to continue. “At least there was heat, that much is undeniable,” he muttered at last, cheeks colouring slightly.

Éomer understood of what he spoke. And, to his surprise, blushed in turn. Gríma, glancing up, mistook the King’s colouring for anger. He quickly put his cup down and stood, thinking to make a quick retreat.

“My Lord,” he said, bowing low, “Perhaps it’s time for me to retire.” He had meant to bow his way out and be gone before Éomer’s anger bloomed. It would seem he was too late, however, as the King rose from his armchair, reaching Gríma in two quick strides.

“You mean to leave without my say so?” Éomer was by now becoming rapidly annoyed. “Pray, tell me why?”

“I… I thought I had angered you,” Gríma tried, and when rewarded with a dark look, continued: “and now, it seems I have. I’d better go.”

He started for the door, but as he did, Éomer held out a strong arm, stopping him. As Gríma tried to escape its reach, Éomer, irritated, grabbed him by his upper arms to hold him put. “And I say, maybe you ought to stay when I say stay. Should you happen to anger me, you will stay and deal with the consequences. As of now, I’m starting to believe that perhaps you enjoy seeing me angry? Is this the case?” Éomer leaned close the Gríma, staring hard into his eyes.

“No, my Lord,” Gríma gasped nervously, eyes wide open. He had not experienced physical brutality from the King, not since his days as a Counsellor, anyway. But that was all in the past. In present days, Éomer had made sure not to use unnecessary force in any matter, be it personal or political. It did not become a King, he thought. But the Wormtongue had been severely beaten and abused before in his life, and he fully expected Éomer to strike him down, should he say the wrong thing now.

He had put his hands up protectively as the King had grabbed him, and they’d come to rest at Éomer’s chest in a futile attempt to push him off. It was to no avail. Éomer was strong, and as long as he wished to keep his grip, Gríma would go nowhere. He ceased his struggle, intending to show compliance. His hands were pale against the fine leather vest Éomer wore over his shirt. He could feel the heat from Éomer’s body underneath, amazed that the man was so warm, so alive. As frightened blue eyes stared into narrowed hazel ones, Gríma sensed a familiar feeling starting to uncurl in his belly, a heat of his own as his heart quickened its beat and sent his blood rushing in all directions. He could feel his face grow hot, and he prayed that the King wouldn’t notice. But evidently, he had.

“What now,” said Éomer, frowning suspiciously. “Tell me what it is you’re thinking.”

Gríma swallowed, not daring to look away. “My Lo- … my King, I’d rather not. Release me,” he added, as Éomer’s face also started to darken, this time truly with anger. Éomer King did not like being told what to do from Gríma Wormtongue. This, he felt, had happened enough. He tightened his grip, and Gríma was sure he would find bruises on his arms on the morrow. He hoped it would be only on his arms.

“Éomer,” said Gríma desperately, “remember of whom we spoke before? It’s… I am… Please!”

It is sometimes difficult to transfer from one feeling to another. Slowly did comprehension dawn upon Éomer, and only slowly did he release his grip, allowing Gríma to retreat, unsteadily, a few steps back. The man took a few deep breaths, hidden now behind a curtain of dark hair, as if unable to face his King properly.

“I… thank you, my Liege, and ask forgiveness.” he said shakily. “I shall… stay, of course, if you wish so. You need only say the word.”

Éomer’s rage had left him. Shame tingled in him, at how he had allowed himself to treat the man. This is not the Wormtongue of old, he needed to remember, but a man who have sworn fealty anew. This behaviour is beneath you! Yet, all the same, a new wave of blood rushed in to colour his face, as he thought of what Gríma had just let slip. You wanted to know his secrets, Éomer King, you wished to know things about him that no one else knew. It would seem you got your wish. Now, what will you do with that knowledge?

The mulled wine had not clouded Éomer’s mind, but it would, he felt, have been nice if he had been able to claim that this was the case. It would have made it easier to explain to himself his next actions. Thinking of the boy who had made snow lanterns, Éomer stepped cautiously forward.

“It is I who need to apologize,” he said, gently holding his hand out. As Gríma merely looked at it, moving neither away from or towards it, Éomer let it fall to his side. “I forgot myself,” he continued, voice carefully composed. “King or no, I should not keep you from your duties, should you wish to leave. But I would like you to stay just a little bit longer. It would not do me well, finishing all of this by myself,” he added, inclining his head to the pitcher of mulled wine.

Gríma eyed the door, then turned his head at the pitcher, never once looking directly at the King. Finally, he let out a small sigh. “And have you indisposed at council tomorrow? No my Lord, I suppouse we can’t have that. I’ll stay for a while, if you’ll have me.” And Éomer thought, that sounded like a plea.

Éomer King held his hand out once more, touching the elbow of the man who had been so many things to him in the past. Traitor, counsellor, prisoner, tormentor. As Gríma stepped towards him, he finally raised his head, mouth slightly open as if to say something, but thin lips hastily closed before words could escape. Pale, still wary blue eyes looked once more into hazel, question unspoken. Éomer thought of warmth, and he thought of heavy blankets resembling an embrace. He thought of Hémfal, a lover long lost. Éomer King thought of loneliness, and then he thought no more, but leaned down to place a soft kiss on those pale lips, holding still till he felt them give way, parting slightly to receive the kiss fully, a shy tongue meeting his. Éomer thought, I do not rightly know what I’m doing. But then, he thought; perhaps I do.


	12. A matter of intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I could spend a lifetime trying to figure out what he’s thinking, thought Éomer, but I was never known for patience.

Hard is the chill of the midwinter night, the gleaming stars reflected in sparkling snow. For the moment, the wind was still, no longer howling around the city of Edoras. For now, the only sound heard was the falling embers in the fireplace as they crackled, warming still against the frosty night outside.

Gríma, former Counsellor of a now dead King, could feel no cold. He breathed heavily, the new King’s one hand on his back, the other entangled in his hair. He had placed his own hands at the other man’s shoulders, boldly pressing their bodies together.

Éomer answered by deepening the kiss, pushing himself against Gríma. He could feel the eagerness of the man’s lips and tongue, and as he came real close, he found a bulge pressing on his thigh, mimicking the swell in his own trousers as he sucked a quivering tongue. Pausing to inhale deeply and regain composure, Éomer turned, facing the four poster bed. He began to guide Gríma slowly towards it. Stumbling backwards, the former many-things hit a bedpost and remained there as the King took a step back, easily freeing himself of Gríma’s arms.

As Gríma caught his breath, he considered the man before him. Such life-force, such passion! He would blow up as easily as fireworks if unattended, that much was for sure. That kiss… Had the Wormtongue ever been kissed before? He had, but the ladies he had experience with were not the kind to kiss on the mouth, and he had never known that such a simple thing could feel so special, so intimate.

Éomer began to undo his leather vest, easing the lacing and struggling out of it, face set with determination. Gríma remained by the bedpost, thinking that he should perhaps get rid of some clothing, but found himself unable to move. His encounter with the rider was one thing, and it seemed so long ago. This again was something else. Seemingly perceiving his state of mind, Éomer came to his aid, swiftly undoing his coat first and then moving on, touching him lightly while undressing him. Slightly encouraged, Gríma set to work on the King’s shirt, unbuttoning it deftly. As Éomer let it fall off from broad shoulders, Gríma gingerly reached out to caress his chest and abdomen, leaning in to nibble cautiously with his mouth while his fingers sought their way down to undo the lacing of Éomer’s pants. Had you ever thought to find yourself in this situation, Gríma, called Wormtongue? Or had you, Éomer, King of Rohan?

Free at last of layers of cloth, Gríma felt the bed hit the back of his knees as he was pushed onto it by his King. He looked hungrily at the sight before him; Éomer’s warm, firm torso and his shapely thighs, muscular arms wrapping themselves around Gríma’s body as Éomer crawled on top of him, steaming of that everlasting inner warmth. Gríma pulled him closer, hands exploring the way across his back and down his spine, hesitating before slowly caressing one firm buttock, trembling slightly as Éomer responded by pushing himself violently against Gríma’s body, making him squeeze even tighter in reply.

Éomer gently freed himself of the embrace. He pulled back, looking at the man afore him as if uncertain what to make of him. Gríma sized the moment and pushed himself up, placing his hands tenderly on Éomer’s hips. At the sudden sensation of Gríma’s lips close to his member, Éomer let out a harsh gasp, steadying the other man’s head with his hand, carefully setting the tune for this dance. Gríma called Wormtongue did his very best to please his King, tongue moving up and down the shaft, circling ‘round its top to make Éomer cry out in delight, only to leave him impatient and needy, longing for the next stroke of that tongue, the next touch of velvet lips.

When Gríma paused to draw his breath, Éomer let out a disappointed grunt. But Gríma offered his hand instead to aid the King, carefully stroking his cock as he let his mouth find its way up along Éomer’s body, testing, tasting, teasing as pale tongue and soft lips wandered upwards, finding hard muscles, soft nipples, a delicate collarbone. As he was gently kissing his way up Éomer’s throat, Gríma could feel the other man’s pulse throbbing violently against his lips, as if it was trying to break through the skin and shower him with all the heat within. He fancied that, should it happen, it would surely seem as if a second sun would had risen right there in the chamber. The thought both tickled and amused him, as he let his lips wander all the way up to Éomer’s ear, breathing in it gently before turning slowly to come face to face with him. He wanted those full lips to meet his again, but he didn’t feel bold enough to voice his desire, fearful now that the other man might not want to touch him further. He thought that surely, the King wouldn’t find his scrawny limbs appealing enough that he’d want to explore them with hands and mouth. Surely Éomer would not waste another kiss on him but try instead to satisfy his need at once. Hesitantly, he let his hands drop, awaiting Éomer’s next move.

As those pale blue eyes looked apprehensively into his own, Éomer could sense the change although he did not rightly understand it. The man had worn a small, inward smile but it had left his lips and the look he now wore could best be described as pleading, although for what, Éomer did not know. I could spend a lifetime trying to figure out what he’s thinking, thought Éomer, but I was never known for patience.

“Is something wrong,” he asked instead. Gríma shook his head dismissively and bent down as if to continue his ministrations, but Éomer’s hand caught him by the chin and brought him back up, peering inquiringly into his eyes. The pleading was still there, though the man sought clearly to disguise it.

“I thought I’d told you, no more lies,” said Éomer. Gríma looked nervous, but the King’s expression was mild, his fingers now gently caressing Gríma’s cheek, finding some loose strands of hair and carefully tucking them back behind one ear. Not since childhood had he felt such a tender touch, thought Gríma, nor since ever. He closed his eyes momentarily, leaning in to the touch, allowing strong fingers to stroke his face. That such small a thing could feel so intimate, he had not known. He had expected something quick and rough, had braced himself for it. But now there was this, and it felt so good, he didn’t quite know how to handle it. Overcome by emotion, he trembled slightly, not daring to open his eyes. For he was sure that if he did, the King would find tears in them.

Éomer simply watched as Gríma took a deep breath to steady himself, blinking a few times as if to clear his mind of something. He caught hold of Éomer’s hand, gently pressing the fingers against his lips, kissing them.

As his hand brushed past Gríma’s cheek, Éomer thought he felt something wet, but he didn’t comment on it. “You must tell me,” he said instead, “if there is something on your mind. I was never much good at guessing.”

Clearing his throat, Gríma looked away, slightly abashed. “Nothing is wrong,” he ventured, “only… different.” He did not want to mention the rider, but the King had required the truth. He fell silent, awaiting Éomer’s reaction.

“Different,” said Éomer flatly. He had not expected to have his skills compared with those of Hémfal, but then, he didn’t know what he had expected. He decided to just humble the man for once. “Different… bad?” he asked, ever the believer of a direct approach.

“Oh, no,” Gríma hastened to assure, “never that. Only… different. I had not thought… I didn’t…” he broke off, not ready to admit to the feelings the King had awakened in him.

“Different good then, I take it.” Éomer was beginning to lose his patience; arguing the meaning of a word like this when there were so much better things to do. However, he must try to remember that Gríma’s past experiences were limited, as the man himself had admitted. “How about this: if things get, shall we say, different bad, you will let me know?”

“I say it’s fair, my Lord,” Gríma answered, a small, grateful smile on his face. “As you rule, I find just. I am ever your –”

Éomer rolled his eyes at the man’s formal tone and leaned down to silence him, his lips closing in over whatever words Gríma had planned to say next. Now, he willingly opened his mouth instead, admitting Éomer’s tongue and encircling it with his own as strong arms wrapped themselves once more around his body. Weathered yet soft hands felt their way gently to explore him, breaking new ground where before there was wasteland. Gríma was eager to see that wasteland go. As Éomer’s hands set to work, Gríma felt the man’s heat spread across his own body, sharing its warmth with him.

Outside, the wind howled anew, piling up yet more snow for the men of Edoras to swear at on the morrow. Inside, as the embers died down, Gríma closed his eyes, finding himself all at the King’s mercy. It was, he decided, not a bad place to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end?
> 
> Thank you for reading, I appreciate ConCrit and reviews.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by many great works, I decided to make my own addition to the Gríma/Éomer (Grimomer?) fandom. Also, I wanted to write that AU where Gríma Wormtongue takes Frodo's offer and survives. (And gets to have some steamy sex, at long last... )
> 
> Reviews are always welcome!


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